A Hunter's Last Vow
by soitgoes-staygold
Summary: After Dean escapes purgatory he meets up with Sam only to find his brother has stopped hunting and never looked for him. Angry, Dean leaves and does something completely out of character, he gets on a plane.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, they belong to the CW. All mistakes are my own.

 **Prologue**

The darkness of the forest around him was a shock. The light in purgatory never changed, never varied, so to be spit out into the cool blackness of night was unnerving, so Dean ran. Legs pumping, arm tingling, and breathe frosting in the chilly night air let Dean know he made it; he was out of the war zone. The same couldn't be said for Cas and Dean grimaced, stumbling a little as he continued on towards where those campers said civilization was. Dean needed to find Sam, needed to make sure his little brother was alright, needed to find a way to get Cas out of Purgatory. But first, Dean needed to get to Louisiana and get Benny out of his arm, it was beginning to burn.

The cabin was barely standing on its own, the windows dark as Sam pulled up in the Impala. The younger Winchester sighed as he climbed out of the sleek car and walked up to the rotting door, pushing it open. The air was musty and damp as Sam blinked, eyes adjusting to slowly to anticipate the body slamming him to the ground. Sam grunted, arms raised ready to defend himself as he came face to face with his older brother who was in the process of pouring holy water all over Sam. Sam tried to protest but only received a face full of detergent quickly followed by a silver blade cutting through his arm. Sam looked at Dean incredulously, after all this time he hoped they would know by now if one of them wasn't entirely themselves.

"My turn, let's go," Dean stated standing up, motioning for Sam to complete the standard procedures.

"I don't need to, I know it's you," Sam huffed, pressing his hand to the cut on his arm, moving to get up.

"Damn it Sammy," Dean snapped as he went through with pouring holy water on himself along with detergent and cutting his arm.

"No Dean, can I just say hello?" Sam implored, waiting for his brother to wipe his arm clean of blood.

"Whelp, let's do this," Dean grinned at Sam as they both reached for each other, sighing into the hug.

"Dude, you're freaking alive," Sam rubbed his hands through his dark hair. "I mean, what the hell happened?" the relief Sam felt from having his brother back never ceased to amaze him.

"I guess standing too close to exploding Dick sends your ass straight to Purgatory," Dean snarked, shaking his head slightly with a small grin.

"Purgatory, what, for the whole year?" Sam said in disbelief.

"Yeah, time flies when you're running for your life," Dean said, eyes cast somewhere over Sam's shoulder.

"Well, how'd you get out?" Sam couldn't believe it, what were the odds.

"I guess whoever built that box didn't want me in there any more than I did," Dean gave him a cheeky grin, clearly lying through his teeth.

"What does that mean?" Sam could feel a chill crawl up his spine, nothing good ever came from either of them escaping the afterlife.

"I'm here, okay" Dean reassured Sam with a firm nod of his head.

"What about Cas, was he there?" Sam asked, eyes worried, constantly looking his brother over.

"Yeah, Cas didn't make it," Dean rumbled, shifting on his feet in clear discomfort. "Something happened to him down there, things got pretty hairy towards the end and he let go."

"So Cas is dead, you saw him die," Sam demanded, trying to understand his brother.

"I saw enough," Dean spoke curtly, ending their conversation about the angel.

"Look Dean, I'm sorry," Sam started to apologize, trying to break through Dean's impenetrable walls.

"Me too. So you, I can't believe you're actually here. You know that half of your numbers are out of service, felt like I was leaving messages in the wind," Dean stated and Sam could hear the accusatory tone in his voice.

"Yeah, I umm ditched the phones," Sam winced as he avoided Dean's intent green eyes.

"Because," Dean demanded, popping open a beer from the fridge.

"Guess, something happened to me this year too. I don't hunt anymore," Sam stated with a shrug, eyes imploring his brother to understand.

"What? You quit?" Dean stared disbelievingly.

"Yeah, you were gone, Cas was gone, and Bobby was dead. Crowley shipped off Kevin and Meg to parts unknown," Sam said as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

"So you just turned tail on the family business," Dean bit out, glaring at Sam.

"Nothing says family quite like the whole family being dead," Sam huffed, he knew Dean was going to take this personally.

"I wasn't dead. In fact, I was knee deep in God's armpit killing monsters which I thought is what we actually do," Dean growled as he stood up and began to pace.

"Yes Dean, and as far as I know Dean, what we do is the thing that got every single member of my family killed. I had no one. For the first time in my life I was completely alone and I didn't have a roadmap. So, yeah, I fixed up the Impala and just drove," Sam beseeched his older brother, begging with his eyes for Dean to understand.

"After you looked for me. Did you look for me, Sam?" Dean's voice was deadly, Sam could tell he already knew the answer. Sam looked away, unable to meet his brother's eyes.

"Good, that's good. We always told each other not to look for each other, that's smart, good for you. Of course we always ignored that cause of our deep abiding love for each other but not this time, right Sammy," Dean groused out, jaw clenched in betrayal.

"I'm still the same guy," Sam exclaimed.

"Well I'm not," Dean bit out, turning away from Sam and walking out the door heading for the Impala. Sam followed his brother, hoping he would be able to make Dean understand his side, how lost and alone he felt. Instead he found his brother rummaging through the trunk of the Impala, packing up his duffle, throwing in the basics along with Ruby's knife, dad's journal, and some books before closing the trunk.

"What are you doing? Take the Impala if you are going to continue hunting, she's yours," Sam was confused, his eyebrows furrowed as he watched his brother walk over to a stolen car.

"I'm not hanging around Sam, and I leaving her with you. She deserves the good life as much as you do. Take care of yourself," Dean gave the Impala a wistful smile as he rubbed her hood before turning to Sam and pulling him into a hug. Sam felt the finality of it, the crushing despair that was coursing through his brother's veins and Sam didn't know what to do. He couldn't believe this was Dean and yet his brother had passed all of the tests.

"Where are you going?" Sam choked out, his voice sounded small even to his own ears.

"Don't know, but you can always call if you need anything. Be good Sam," Dean spoke softly as Sam watched him climb into the old beat up car and drive down the dirt road.

Dean drove east, in a car that wasn't his Baby, a stolen car that didn't have any of his tapes or smelt like home. He left his home behind with Sam. Sam who deserved the white picket fence and the nice girlfriend with the dog he's always wanted. Sam deserved happiness. At least, that's what Dean kept telling himself as he crossed over into New York. The hunter couldn't help the feelings of betrayal that kept creeping up on him when he thought of his brother. Sam didn't even look for him; Dean wasn't dead, just not on this plane of existence. Not that it should matter, death has never stopped either one of them before. Dean heaved out a sigh, turning up the radio to try and drown out his thoughts.

It was late at night when Dean entered New York City, the lights flashing all around him as he drove through the city that never sleeps. Intending to drive through, green eyes flashed to the exit sign signaling the off ramp to JFK Airport and Dean quickly cut across lanes. Pulling into a parking lot, Dean let the car idle for a moment, staring at the air strip to his right.

"Man, I hate flying," Dean gave himself an exasperated huff as he turned the ignition off and quickly got out. He wiped down the steering wheel, radio, and door handle for his prints before going to gather his duffle from the trunk and wiping that down too. With one last look at the inconspicuous stolen vehicle, Dean made his way into the airport.

Dean approached an attractive young woman working the ticket counter and plastered on his best smile, "hey, yeah, um, I would like a ticket for the next flight out to London."

The woman's eyebrows rose a bit but punched in the destination on her computer before asking, "one way or round trip?"

Dean continued to smile even though he knew it came across as brittle, "one way."

The woman nodded before asking for his identification and payment. Dean almost groaned out loud when he saw the price, but it didn't matter, not like he was really paying for it anyway.

"Will you be checking any bags with us today?" Dean glanced up at the question, only to realize that yes he would have to check his bag if he wanted to get past security.

"Very well then, please put it on the conveyer belt and you are all set sir, have a nice flight," the woman gave him an encouraging smile as he watched his duffle bag disappear.

Dean nodded his thanks and quickly made his way through security with thankfully no mishaps. His flight was scheduled to leave in an hour, so Dean quickly made his way to the terminal, stopping off to buy some sleep aid pills and a snack. The wait was agony, when they finally started boarding Dean thought he was going to pass out from both the stress of flying and the stress of Sam. Dean also didn't want to face the fact he was doing something he never thought he would ever do; he was running away, he was running away from Sam.

When Dean woke it was to the sounds of people removing luggage from the overhead bins, the plane had landed. Dean looked out the plane window to see the dull grey morning of London as a British voice thanked the passengers and captain for the safe flight. Dean made his way out of the plane and to baggage claim, quickly grabbing his duffle bag. Making his way outside, Dean grinned at the sight of the black cabs, double decker red buses, and red phone booths. Shouldering his duffle, Dean turned right and sent a quick prayer to Cas, hoping for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters they belong to the CW and BBC

 **Chapter 1**

Dean had been in London for a week, staying at some cheap hotel above a pub. He spent the first week getting to know the city and visiting tourist traps. Having spent most of his life in small towns and on the backroads, London was something else. The city made Dean feel small while at the same time drawing him into its rhythm. He had begun searching for more permanent housing, something he never thought he would actually have. So far, finding an apartment or "flat" as they were called here was proving more difficult than he imagined. Landlords liked references and financial statements and London was expensive.

Currently, Dean was strolling down a side street trying to gain a lay of the land. It was the hairs rising on the back of his neck that tipped him off before he heard the sound of a scuffle and argument. Dean picked up his pace and rapidly round the corner to see a hooded man assaulting an older woman carrying groceries.

"Hey," Dean shouted alerting them of his presence as the thief took out a knife, turning towards Dean. Decades of instinct took over as Dean quickly disarmed the man, effectively breaking his wrist. The man slumped to the ground in pain as Dean pocketed the knife, it was a nice blade.

"Oh my goodness, oh thank you so much," a kind, soft voice exclaimed from behind Dean.

"You alright ma'am?" Dean asked looking over his shoulder at the slight, red haired woman.

"Yes, yes of course, silly me, it's just I had to go out to the market, oh I should call the police," Dean took a hesitant step back from the woman's ramblings but nodded in agreement as she went to take out her phone. Dean turned back to the criminal who was still groaning on the ground, clutching his wrist making sure the kid didn't run off.

The sirens sounded a few minutes later as a few squad cars pulled up to the curb. A grey haired man wearing a long coat stepped out or the front car making his way over to Dean and the woman. "Mrs. Hudson, are you alright?" The man hugged the woman, who Dean could only assume was Mrs. Hudson. "I'm fine Detective Inspector, just fine, no harm done thanks to this young man," Mrs. Hudson reassured the man as she gestured to Dean.

Dean followed Mrs. Hudson and the Detective Inspector who introduced himself as Greg Lestrade to a building designated 221 Baker Street next to a red awning labeled Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café. The building looked innocuous enough, with its brick façade and paneled black door. Mrs. Hudson quickly unlocked the door, chatting on about the apartment, or flat, she was trying to rent out. Dean was ushered inside with a resigned looking Lestrade who grumbled about having to get back to Scotland Yard. Dean was relieved to see the Detective go, never one to enjoy being around law enforcement for too long, even though he seemed like a nice man.

"Well, this is it. I know it's a little dank but that's what happens with basement flats," Mrs. Hudson cringed as she opened the door, revealing a dark room smelling of the damp London air. Dean glanced around noticing a small kitchen and living room with what he assumed to be the bedroom and bath down a narrow hall.

"Stayed in way worse Mrs. H, but I don't exactly have a job right now and very little money to pay you," Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to let the woman down easily. It was one thing to scam a motel, but scamming a little old lady out of money was something Dean wasn't comfortable with.

"I've been looking for work as a mechanic, but London doesn't seem to have a lot of repair shops," Dean grimaced, glancing around the room again.

"Oh, you can fix things?" Mrs. Hudson's eyes lit up at the prospect as Dean slowly nodded, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"First month's rent free if you can do some repairs around the building and while you're at it you can continue to look for that job," Mrs. Hudson nodded decisively, turning big eyes on Dean. Dean sighed, rubbing his face as he thought over the deal and it was a good deal.

"Sure Mrs. H, sounds good," he agreed with a small smile and a little chuckle as Mrs. Hudson let out an exclamation.

"Oh wonderful, well you just go pack your things right up and we can meet here tomorrow at ten. I will have a key for the front door and the door to your flat made up and you can move right in," Mrs. Hudson gave him a smile, taking Dean by the arm and leading him out of the apartment.

"Alright, so tomorrow morning, ten o'clock I will be here," Dean murmured as he walked out the front door, turning to look at the 221 Baker Street adorning the black panels.

"Yes, it's so exciting and you can meet your other housemate and don't worry he's not as bad as he seems at first," Mrs. Hudson grinned as she closed the door, leaving Dean a little dumbfounded at her parting shot. Dean turned and began heading down the street towards his hotel as the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. Trusting his gut, Dean turned and looked over his shoulder and up to the second level of 221 Baker Street noticing a twitch of the curtains. Squinting, Dean watched as a dark shape slinked away from the windows before he continued down the street.

Sherlock heard the rattle of the tea tray, signaling Mrs. Hudson's entrance. "I have someone who will be renting out 221C, isn't that nice Sherlock. He's a lovely young man, American, and will be fixing things around the building, isn't that just nice," Mrs. Hudson tittered as she placed the tea tray down and began pouring two cups.

"He's the man who rescued you from the mugger and you just figured having someone who could disarm a criminal would be a wise choice as a renter," Sherlock drawled as he picked up his tea, taking a delicate sip.

"I have you as a tenant, don't I," Mrs. Hudson muttered sweetly causing Sherlock to narrow his eyes.

"My point exactly Mrs. Hudson," the detective rumbled, amusement evident in his voice.

"Well, it's not like I have to worry, you'll be here in order to tell me all about what a horrible, scheming man he is after first glance," Mrs. Hudson giggled around the rim of her tea cup.

"Shouldn't it concern you that you are surrounding yourself with devious individuals?" Sherlock sneered, trying to dismiss the older woman.

"Please, Sherlock. The only devious ones are you and your brother," Mrs. Hudson rolled her eyes, patting Sherlock on the arm.

"I am nothing like Mycroft," Sherlock bit out, appalled at the very idea.

Mrs. Hudson gave him a guileless smile as she gathered up the tea tray and headed downstairs. Sherlock huffed out an annoyed breath, mind racing with the possible variables that come with acquiring a new housemate, a new American housemate. Sherlock drummed his fingers, launching himself out of his chair and grabbing his violin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: All mistakes are my own and I do not own these characters.**

Sorry for not responding to the comments I'v been on vacation and will get to them soon.

 **Chapter 2**

The American moved in by the end of the week. Mrs. Hudson was so thrilled to have a tenant for 221C not even Sherlock's scathing remarks about letting some unknown American rent the flat could bring the elderly woman down. Mrs. Hudson busied herself with cleaning and preparing the 221C while also baking a welcome pi, much to Sherlock's displeasure, after all she constantly reminded the detective about how she was a landlady and not a housekeeper. Sherlock profusely hoped the hero worship would wear off sooner rather than later. He never got this kind of treatment after saving Mrs. Hudson, granted she was usually in need of saving because of him. Sherlock huffed, agitated as he drummed his fingers along the arms of his chair. John would be back shortly, that would provide some entertainment. If only he had a case, this new tenant business was dreadfully dull and the man who would be residing in 221C sounded like an absolute idiot with his gruff American drawl.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing. The man's voice sounded out of place within 221 Baker Street, the gruff world weary tone at odds with the chaotic intelligence that permeated the air of 221B. The deep, firm quality of the voice combined with the weariness suggests a man past the midpoint of his life. This information, however, was contradicting to what Sherlock had overheard Mrs. Hudson say about the man. Apparently, this American needed a place to stay, at least more permanently than a motel room. Sherlock scoffed, what kind of person picks up and moves to another country without a plan or proper housing. Not an individual past their 50s, which decreases the man's age. The man could be running from something, Sherlock muses. Financial debts would explain the lack of ability to pay rent. However, people suffering financially would not move to a place more costly to live than the average American city. Sherlock sighed, he hoped it wasn't something as mundane as family or other relationship problems, but that was usually the best candidate.

Sherlock stirred slightly in his chair, hearing John enter the flat weighed down by grocery bags.

"New bloke's moving in today," John remarked as he began putting the groceries away.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson won't stop going on about it," Sherlock muttered as he rolled his eyes.

"Well, he did save her from that mugger," John gave Sherlock a reprimanding look over his shoulder.

"Have you met him yet?" John asked, turning back to finish putting away the groceries.

"Please," Sherlock snorted in derision.

"What? Come now Sherlock, he's our new housemate it's the least we could do," John scolded the dark haired man.

"Why," Sherlock drawled, already bored with this conversation, he should have known John would be intrigued by the newcomer and therefore an insufficient source of amusement.

"Because, Sherlock, it'd be the nice thing to do. And I don't want to wake up one day and find out I'm living above a psychopath. Well, another psychopath," John exclaimed with a slight grin, shaking his head.

"High functioning sociopath," Sherlock muttered, sending a quick glare at John. The doctor simply ignored him and grabbed the newspaper before relaxing in the chair across from Sherlock.

"I suppose you want to extend an invitation for dinner or the customary drinks to this man," Sherlock despaired, mouth curling unpleasantly.

"It would be the proper thing to do," John said, hiding a grin behind the newspaper. Sherlock grimaced, sharp eyes flicking over to the door as Mrs. Hudson poked her head in before motioning to someone behind her and entering the flat.

"Sherlock, John, this is Dean Winchester the new tenant in 221C. I thought it best if I introduce everyone, heaven's knows Sherlock would never get around to doing it," Mrs. Hudson chattered as the three men's eyes traveled over one another.

"Welcome to London Dean. I'm John Watson, if you need anything don't hesitate to ask," Sherlock heard John introduce himself and a part of his brain knew full well that it was his turn for an introduction, Sherlock's mind however, was in overdrive.

Deductions flew through Sherlock's mind and swirled in the air around Dean Winchester. The American gave his real name, which was odd because the rest of his persona was a lie. An exceedingly well crafted, thoroughly rehearsed lie.

"Sherlock," John snapping his name jerked the detective out of the beginnings of his deductions.

"Sherlock Holmes," he put on his most charming smile, instantly drawing a suspicious gaze from John.

"Dean Winchester," the deep American voice sounded, accompanied by the same smile as Sherlock's.

The smile was just as vapid and false as Sherlock's, but displayed with a practiced ease. Sherlock's skin crawled with the desire to denounce this man as a fraud or at the very least a liar.

Sherlock and Dean continued to stare at each other while John and Mrs. Hudson looked on, John with an impressed glint in his eye. The former soldier could tell his life was about to get even more interesting, as if that was even possible. There was an unidentifiable tension surrounding Dean and Sherlock, both men clearly analyzing the other, but to what outcome, John couldn't begin to hazard a guess. Clearing his throat, John gained Dean's attention after a second with a polite raising of sandy eyebrows.

"So Dean, what brings you to London?" John was curious, the American seemed so out of place, even for a tourist.

"Just had the chance for a change of scenery and decided to take it," Dean casually remarked resulting in a disagreeing snort from Sherlock.

John's eyes quickly cut to his friend, warning the detective to keep his mouth shut. Sherlock glared, conceding to John causing the doctor to grin. John glanced back at Dean who had a small smile on his face, almost wistful, softening his green eyes.

"Well, I'm sure London is nothing like anywhere you've ever been," John smiled at their new housemate, "and really, if you need anything don't hesitate to ask," John nodded encouragingly as Dean looked somewhat uncomfortable with the prospect of having to ask someone for help.

"Yes, actually John and I were just talking about inviting you out for dinner or a beer, which I am sure you would prefer," Sherlock spoke up in a flurry of movement, avoiding John's suspicious gaze, sharp eyes focused on Dean's reaction to his subtle deduction on his past reliance on alcohol.

"Yeah, sure man, a beer would be great," Dean agreed, the slight narrowing of his eyes the only indication that Sherlock's remark hadn't gone unnoticed.

The man was a con artist and an excellent one at that, Sherlock hid a manic grin behind what he hoped was a pleasant smile. Judging by John's pinched expression, he wasn't succeeding. Mrs. Hudson in contrast had a huge smile on her face, hands clasped together clearly pleased.

"Excellent, how's tonight, John will give you the details," Sherlock stated, dismissing the room.

"Actually, tonight's not good for me, gotta unpack. I can do tomorrow, unless you've got something going on," Dean gave Sherlock and John a slightly apologetic smile.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "what could you possibly have to unpack," he demanded, distantly hearing John huff as he watched Dean tense.

"Dude, I just moved here from the States, usually people have things to unpack when they move," Dean rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"You came here with a duffel bag. Please tell me what you could possibly have to unpack," Sherlock drawled, smirking at Dean's shocked expression.

"Well maybe I just don't want to be around your charming self," Dean snapped, hackles rising.

"Well, that's probably the closest to the truth you are going to get," Sherlock belittled, eyes lighting up as he watched Dean grow progressively angrier.

"What the hell man. Do you get off on being a total tool," Dean exclaimed, hands balled into fists.

"Alright, easy, we can try for beers tomorrow," John soothed, the doctor's eyes catching Sherlock's.

Sherlock sighed, nodding distractedly, getting tired with this discussion. He had deductions that needed to be analyzed, conclusions to figure out all revolving around Dean Winchester.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and all mistakes are my own.

Note: Grad school starts tomorrow, as of right now I will still update every Sunday but if I need to change my update day I will let everyone know (it will still be a once a week update if it changes)

 **Chapter 3**

Dean was getting out of the shower when he heard the rhythmic tap on his door. Suppressing the urge and his natural inclination to grab a weapon, Dean calmly made his way to the door, wrapping a towel around his waist. The hunter suppressed a groan as he opened the door and came face to face with his neighbor upstairs. The sharp, angular features topped with a mop of black hair was unnaturally still. The only sign of life coming from the keen blue eyes roving over Dean's torso.

"Hey, buddy, eyes up here," Dean joked, trying to snap Sherlock out of his study.

The thing was, Sherlock wasn't looking at Dean in a way the hunter was used to. He wasn't being viewed as a potential hook up or analyzed as a potential threat, hell, Sherlock was looking at Dean like the man was a riddle and frankly, it set Dean's teeth on edge.

"Relax, I have no intention of making any advances on you or your masculinity," Sherlock drawled, intense eyes landing on Dean's face.

"Yeah, I got that," Dean mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

Sherlock hummed, tilting his head and scrutinizing Dean once again.

"What do you want?" Dean asked, trying not to fidget beneath the blue gaze.

The gaze that suddenly reminded the hunter of another blue stare, on he failed to save. Dean swallowed thickly, trying to banish thoughts of Cas and Purgatory. Trying to regain his composure, the elder Winchester missed the gleam flare in Sherlock's eyes. Instead the hunter looked up into the impassive face of his neighbor.

"I came to see if you were ready for tonight's endeavor, obviously, you're not," Sherlock answered, sounding annoyed.

"Yeah, sorry man, give me ten minutes," Dean muttered, still uncomfortable with his previous thoughts.

Sherlock nodded regally, with the perfected air of dismissiveness as he strode back up the stairs and Dean closed the door, turning to get ready.

Sherlock was positively buzzing. His synapses firing off at rapid speeds as deductions flew through his mind. He has never seen a man with such extensive and intense scarring from wounds clearly of a violent nature. However, it was the handprint scar seared into Dean's shoulder causing Sherlock to practically salivate. For it was undoubtedly a scare burned in the shape of a handprint. The scenarios Sherlock was concocting for how Dean received such a scar were each more ludicrous than the next and it was without a doubt a scar on the man's shoulder.

Flopping down in his armchair, Sherlock steeples his long fingers as he brought them beneath his chin. The detective pushed his focus away from the handprint and moved on to the tattoo above Dean's heart. It was unconventional and most definitely held a religious element to it which was at odds with Dean's crafted persona.

Sherlock needed more information; the physical evidence was no longer enough. If the detective took into consideration all the information he had observed, Dean Winchester was a man who belonged behind bars. A soldier, not in the conventional sense more likely he had been raised to be one by a former soldier, his father. Deceased mother was obvious, however, how long the woman has been dead, less so. Sherlock leaned towards early childhood due to Dean's interactions with Mrs. Hudson, the man fairly soaked up the motherly attention suggesting a severe lack of it for the majority of his life. A strict military upbringing with no maternal figure would suggest a person lacking in social skills, yet Dean is clearly charming and personable which leads to another person important enough to impact Dean's personality, a sibling. Older or younger was the difficult part. Dean's personality was childish enough to suggest younger, but his body language suggests older with the subconscious tilting in a protective manner as if expecting someone to be standing beside him. Younger, Sherlock decided, the subconscious always outweighs the conscious mind.

John appeared in his line of sight causing Sherlock to stir out of his musings.

"All ready then?" John asked, turning to put on his coat.

"How long has it been?" Sherlock looked at John.

"About ten minutes, why?" John answered with a quirked brow.

"Dean should be ready by now then, let's go," Sherlock stated as he moved towards the door.

"Please tell me you didn't walk in on the man while in the shower, Sherlock," John exhaled, clearly exasperated with his friend.

"Of course not, he had clearly just gotten out of the shower and was covered in a towel. Nevermind that though, why would you assume I walked in on him and not that I just made an observation on his habits," Sherlock glared at John, the doctor looked back with a because-I-know-you face.

"Honestly, Sherlock, because you are clearly fascinated with this bloke and are going to take every opportunity to pry," John fondly chuckled before turning to walk downstairs.

"I am not fascinated by Dean Winchester," Sherlock contradicted, a small pout on his face.

By the time Sherlock made it out the front door, Dean and John were in step with one another heading towards John's favorite pub. Sherlock shook his head a John's predictability but followed nonetheless, eager to get some alcohol into Dean.

Dean liked John, he decided as they made their way into the pub. The shorter man was straight forward and had a sarcastic streak, Dean appreciated people like that. Dean looked around the pub out of habit, noting exits and blind spots before the three of them made their way to a corner table, Dean taking the chair with his back to the wall. The hunter caught Sherlock eyeing him, but the man's aloof face left nothing to be discerned.

"I'll go get us a round shall I," John spoke up, taking his coat off and laying it on the back of his chair.

"Whiskey, thanks," Dean pipes up as John nods and heads off to the bar.

Dean glances at Sherlock but the man is scanning the pub, eyes intensely focused as they travel over a man and younger woman at the bar. Dean's eyes follow Sherlock's, taking in the scene with a hunter's view. To anyone else, it would seem as if the man was the initiator, however, the young woman frankly screamed vampire. Dean's body tensed as he adjusted his chair to keep the couple in his line of sight. John made his way back over, thumping Dean's whiskey down in front of him, Dean nodding his thanks.

"Bartender told me something interesting, apparently there's been a couple of murders around here, Sherlock," John took a sip of his beer, eyeing the detective.

"Two men, early forties, both found a block north of here with two puncture wounds in their throats, bodies drained of blood," Sherlock stated, deep voice sounding detached as he mentioned the particulars of the case.

"What, like a vampire?" John's mystified expression almost causes Dean to spit out his drink.

"Vampire, John, really," Sherlock rolls his eyes disdainfully. Dean watches in amusement as John makes a face right back at Sherlock. It's a bizarre friendship to be sure, but Dean is starting to understand it.

Dean's eyes travel back to the young woman and middle aged man, brain taking in the new information he just heard. He's tempted to go press the bartender for more information but decides not to push his luck as John gets up to use the bathroom.

"Would you like another round?" Dean hears Sherlock politely ask him.

"You trying to get me drunk so I spill all my secrets," Dean drawled as he took a sip of his whiskey, the smokey flavor burning down his throat.

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock stated after a moment, surprising Dean with his honesty.

"You could just ask you know," Dean grumbled, eyeing the man across from him.

"I'd rather not be lied to, it gets dreadfully tedious," Sherlock's voice rumbled.

"How do you know I'd lie to you? Maybe you're just weird enough or I'm just desperate enough to tell the truth," Dean arched his eyebrows, a slow smirk crawling across his lips, he looks back at the couple at the bar noticing them leave out the door to the back alleyway.

"You're that lonely," Sherlock scoffed.

"Aren't you?" Dean knowingly challenged.

"You sit there all high and mighty with your 'science of deduction', yeah I looked you up, but you're all alone, no one but John to show off to," Dean sneered, he could feel his hackles begin to rise, Dean knew what was about to happen behind the pub. The smug look on Sherlock's face was doing nothing to calm his aggression or give him the out he needed to get away for a few minutes.

"So he can use a computer, impressive," Sherlock taunted, imperious eyes staring Dean down

"Sam would claim differently," Dean grimaced as the sentence slipped out.

"Ah yes, the younger brother, family drama, dull," Sherlock spoke dismissively.

"You know what man, I don't need to take this shit from you, don't follow me," Dean snapped, standing up, every intention of going into the back alley and saving the poor guy from that blood sucking bitch. He just needed to make sure Sherlock and John wouldn't follow him.

"Dean," Sherlock called his name as he made his way out to the alley. Dean knew it was going to be too much to ask as he heard Sherlock's footsteps behind him. He needed to find this chick and fast.

Once outside, Dean barred the door quickly with the garbage cans to the right of it, hopefully that would slow Sherlock down. Dean looked around the alley, he heard them before he saw them. It was a low grunting sound followed by a high, sharp moan which caused Dean to shudder in revulsion before he made his way towards the couple. The heavy breathing coming from the two did not drown out the rattle of the pub's back door or the crash of the trash cans as Sherlock busted through. Dean quickly rounded a sharp corner coming face to face with a mouth full of fangs. Dean quickly whipped out a knife, shoving the shocked man out of the way and coincidently into Sherlock who had just rounded the corner. The woman hissed at Dean, lunging for the hunter. Dean dodged, plunging the knife into her neck, causing the woman to howl in rage. Dean need something large and sharp, he scanned the alley as the woman staggered back to her feet.

"Find me something to cut her head off with," Dean shouted back at Sherlock and the man, hoping one of them would come to their senses and help him out.

Dean turned just in time to deflect the vampire's next attack, but not fast enough to prevent himself from getting flung into the brick of the building, head cracking against the wall. Disoriented, Dean felt cool hands curl around his neck, cutting off his air supply. Dean wheezed, hands clutching the the woman's face, thumbs digging into her eyes, causing the vampire to shriek and Dean's hands to come back bloody. Dean stumbled to his feet, looking around for any sort of weapon. His eyes landed on Sherlock, the detective was staring wide eyed, but jaw set standing a few feet away holding what looked to be barbed wire. Dean nodded and motioned for him to toss it over, Sherlock did just in time. The woman was furious, hands curled like claws and jaw snapping. Dean dodged her wild lunge and got behind her, barbed wire wrapped around her throat. Dean heaved, blood spraying his face as metal cut through flesh and then bone. The woman's body slumped to the ground, head rolling towards Sherlock.

"That, was a vampire," Dean mocked, before he felt himself fall forward and his mind went dark.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: All mistakes are my own and I do not own these characters**

 **Chapter 4**

Sherlock lurched forward, barely managing to catch Dean as the man slumped forward, unconscious. Sherlock distantly heard John calling his name, mind focused on the man in his arms and the events he just witnessed. This was nothing like the Hound of Baskerville case, he was not drugged or hallucinating and the woman's head on the ground clearly had a second set of razor sharp teeth.

"Sherlock," John gasped by the detective's side as Sherlock turned to look at his friend with a calculating, if still not a little wide, eyes.

"Take him. Where's the other man?" Sherlock snapped out, heaving Dean over to John who stumbled under the large man's weight.

"He's over there, he's in shock. Sherlock what the hell is going on?" John demanded, leaning Dean against the building wall, checking his vitals.

Sherlock didn't answer as he took out his phone and sent a quick text before addressing the nervous wreck of a man who was almost a victim.

"What happened?" Sherlock bit out, icy tone snapping the man to attention.

"I don't know. One minute she was all sweet and the next, fangs were popping out of her mouth and I was being held down with my head ripped to the side," the man wailed, shaking uncontrollably, "is she, it, dead?"

Well seeing as how her head is no longer attached to her body, I would say yes," Sherlock rolled his eyes before leaving the man to head back to John and Dean, sirens sounding around the corner.

Police cars along with a nondescript black car pulled up along the entrance of the alley as Sherlock bent down to inspect Dean.

"Concussion along with multiple bruises around the throat and most likely a few cracked ribs," John told Sherlock as the EMTs and Lestrade approached them.

"What the bloody hell happened here?" Lestrade practically shouted incredulously.

"Female aggressor, that man over there was the intended victim. I'm sure you will see his profile matches the other victims found in the area," Sherlock stated, standing up to face Lestrade.

"Right, and Dean?" the Detective Inspector nodded towards the American who was still unconscious and being evaluated by EMTs.

"Was lucky enough to get the upper hand," Sherlock stated, voice daring Lestrade to challenge him.

"Upper hand. She lost her head," Lestrade exclaimed.

"Unfortunate, yes," a new smooth voice drawled, followed by the click of an umbrella.

"Mycroft," Sherlock nodded to his brother receiving a dip of the head in return.

"Perhaps we should focus on getting this man to a hospital and then you can question him when he is conscious," Mycroft gave a condescending smirk as Dean was hoisted on to a stretcher and loaded on the Ambulance, John close behind. Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other, ignoring a thoroughly confused Lestrade.

"Shall we Sherlock," Mycroft turned and walked back to the car.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock spoke, following his brother to the car, ignoring Lestrade's indignant calls.

"What is going on Mycroft?" Sherlock asked once they were on their way to the hospital. His brother was silent for a moment before speaking.

"I have some interesting information on your new housemate," Mycroft stated in lieu of answering. He passed a thick file over to Sherlock who rolled his eyes before leafing through it.

The first page was a mugshot of Dean taken a few years prior. The photograph showed a much more carefree young man than the one Sherlock had met. The following pages consisted of FBI reports and witness accounts revolving around Dean Winchester. The FBI reports depicted one Dean Winchester as at worst a serial killer and at best a low level con artist, Sherlock easily believed the latter. The reports also spoke of a Sam Winchester, Dean's younger brother with two mug shots attached to the last page. Sherlock's eyes widened when he came across Dean's supposed deaths and resurrections. The files were extensive and clearly depicted a man capable of immense violent acts with little to no remorse. Sherlock could understand how the FBI came to this conclusion based on what he observed earlier. The FBI, however, got one thing very wrong, Dean Winchester was not a threat to humanity, he was a threat to those things that haunted humanity.

"They call themselves 'Hunters'. There are a few groups operating here in England, but apparently America is a bed of supernatural activity," Mycroft commented, shooting Sherlock a significant look as they pulled up to the hospital. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement to his brother before stepping out of the car, file in hand.

John was in the waiting room when Sherlock walked in, speaking to the nurse at the front desk.

"He's in room 310," John said as Sherlock approached before they both headed to the elevators.

"FBI's most wanted, been declared legally dead multiple times and is considered to suffer from religious psychosis and extremely dangerous," Sherlock summarized the contents of the file to John as the elevator pinged and let them out.

"Well, we sure know how to pick them," John blinked owlishly and sighed, rubbing his face.

"He said it was a vampire," Sherlock mused as they walked to room 310.

"You can't be serious," John stated, eyebrows furrowed as they stopped outside the door, hearing the doctor moving around inside.

"Religious psychosis," Sherlock murmured absentmindedly.

"Why don't we just go in and ask him," John said shrugging and pushing the door open.

Sherlock wasn't surprised to find Dean belligerently trying to get out of bed as the doctor calmly suggested otherwise. Sherlock was even less surprised as John took charge and forced Dean to remain in the hospital bed and took his chart away from the stuttering doctor.

"You are not going anywhere, you need rest and medication," John scolded the American as he proceeded to check Dean's vitals and chart.

"What did you mean 'vampire'?" Sherlock stated, ignoring Dean's grumbling towards John.

"You know monsters who like to drink blood, although they're nothing like Dracula or those pansy ass sparkly vamps teenage girls seem to love," Dean hissed out as John prodded his ribs.

"So I take it wooden stakes, sunlight, and garlic don't repel them," John grinned up at Dean.

"Beheading is the only thing that works, and deadman's blood acts like a paralytic," Dean commented.

"Oh, and uh thanks by the way, for the save with barbed wire back there," Dean gave Sherlock a grateful nod, green eyes catching the detective's blue ones.

"It was quite an impressive feat of strength, decapitating a person with only barbed wire," Sherlock remarked, eying the injured man speculatively.

"So you both are taking this rather well," Dean eyed Sherlock back while John snorted at the hunter's comment.

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," Sherlock declared.

"Right, thanks there Spock," Dean smirked, "so what do you want to know?"

"Everything," Sherlock affirmed giving Dean a cheshire smile of his own as John rolled his eyes at the both of them.

"It's a long story," Dean groused, rubbing the back of his head disbelievingly, body deflating.

"Well, maybe we are just crazy enough to sit here and listen," Sherlock's deep voice murmured causing Dean's head to snap up, green eyes wide as they met the detectives.

"Alright," Dean agreed with a sigh.

"But first, you're getting me out of this hospital," Dean's bright, cheeky grin lit up his face as John groaned in defeat.


End file.
